The Date Which Will Live in Infamy Affair
by EveningInHornersCorners
Summary: Two agents speculate about Napoleon's latest conquest.


_A/N: For this story, I'm going to take a leaf from the fantastic Crystal Rose of Pollux's book and say, as she often does, that if anything here looks like a reference to one of my other fandoms, it probably is._

* * *

It was nine o'clock on Monday morning, and Agent Robert Price was dead on his feet. Though pulling an all-nighter in order to finish his backed up paperwork had been unavoidable, that fact didn't make the experience any less unpleasant. After four years in the field, he'd been in his share of tough spots, but still nothing flummoxed him so much as an endless night of cajoling his stiff fingers to strike the typewriter keys and the resulting lines blurring and doubling up before his tired eyes.

This morning, as soon as he'd gotten his badge from the secretary on duty and dropped off the offending papers, Robert had beelined for the hall coffeepot, where he stood now, just reveling in the steam floating up from his paper cup.

Another figure approached, and Robert lifted his head as Agent Marvin Dillinger drew up beside him.

"Hey, Price," Marv said as he reached for a cup, "you were on background detail at the Williamchester party on Friday night, right?"

Robert stared blankly for a moment. His mind had been such a slurry of paperwork for the past twelve hours that he'd barely given Friday's mission a thought.

"Right," he replied at last, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. He put his cup to his lips, then quickly pulled it away when the coffee burned his tongue. "Why?"

"Did you see Napoleon's date?"

"Yeah. She wasn't an U.N.C.L.E. girl. I thought April Dancer was supposed to go with him."

"She was, but she landed in the hospital about two hours before Napoleon was supposed to pick her up. Emergency appendectomy or something. I heard Mr. Waverly about flipped his wig, but Napoleon said not to worry, he'd figure something out. And I don't know where he got her, but _man_ , was she gorgeous!"

Robert put his cup down and leaned up against the wall, Marv's enthusiasm jogging his memory. "That long, _long_ brown hair."

Marv nodded. "You know, my brother told me that when his wife goes to balls and parties and whatnot, she always puts her hair up. I don't get that. I think this girl had the right idea. I'd rather my lady had it down so I could run my fingers through it. Wish her bangs hadn't been so thick, though—I barely got a glimpse at her eyes. They were blue. Matched her dress."

"And what a great dress!" Robert grinned. "Long skirt, lace collar—she looked like a Victorian painting. It was good for an optical illusion, too, because she couldn't actually have been as tall as she looked—I mean, she wasn't even wearing heels!"

Marv smiled self-righteously. "I _like_ tall women—especially if their figures are kind of pared down, like hers was. Long and lean, that's how I like 'em."

"Do you like them chilly, too? I don't think she smiled all evening."

"She was just uncomfortable. How would _you_ feel if Paul Williamchester wanted your every dance? And she seemed pretty awkward on the dance floor anyway—like she wasn't quite used to it."

"I do hope Napoleon _warned_ her about Williamchester. It would be very sloppy to let an innocent get within spitting—let alone _kissing_ —distance of that man without her knowing anything about his...activities."

Marv shook his head. "I doubt he told her much. He probably figured the less she knew, the less likely she'd be to blow things."

The two of them lapsed into a pleasant silence, thick with daydreams about the mystery woman.

Robert was the one to revive the conversation. "Do you suppose if we asked who she was, he'd tell us her name?"

Marv chuckled. "Been there, done that. She'd kind of been on my mind all weekend, so when I ran into Napoleon on the way in this morning, I had to ask."

"And?"

"He said it was his Great Aunt Maude."

* * *

Napoleon sauntered into the office he and Illya shared with a glint in his eye and a wicked smile on his face.

"They're talking about you again."

Illya did not so much as look up from the map spread out on his desk.

"Napoleon, the next time I am tempted to yield in the face of one of your outrageous schemes, kindly remind me not to."

"Oh come now, Illya. You know as well as I do—and as well as everyone else _doesn't_ —that the operation was too classified for me to take just anyone. With April out, and all the other field girls on assignments of their own—well, what was I supposed to do? Dance with Williamchester myself? Besides, you're a much better pickpocket than April. You lifted that watch off him in record time."

"On occasion, it surprises me how efficiently one can operate under copious amounts of unnecessary stress," the Russian offered dryly.

Napoleon perched on the edge of his partner's desk. "Incidentally, _Tovarisch_ , tonight, a little more skin will be in order. I wouldn't want to get a reputation for taking out prudes."

"Tonight?" Illya inquired mildly, making a small notation on his map.

"Didn't I tell you? April was supposed to accompany me to the Calvert banquet, too. Same mission, same protocol—and still no available girls."

"I see." Illya stood up, folded the map, and tucked it into the front of his jacket before heading for the door. "In that case, I shall go and see if I can acquire something suitable to wear."

"You do that, _Tovarisch_. I'll see you later."

But the Russian had no intention of going to see someone about a gown—at least not that kind. He had an errand of mercy to run. April was chafing to get out of the hospital, and, especially in light of this new development, Illya intended to do everything in his power to hasten the process.


End file.
